


Impetus

by narsus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Scandal In Belgravia, BDSM, Episode Related, F/M, M/M, Platonic Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-22
Updated: 2012-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:49:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narsus/pseuds/narsus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has spent so long trying to control all the odds that he has forgotten that he may, in fact, be capable of much more than stasis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impetus

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat, and obviously in the genesis of it all, to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

They try it of course. Just the once. A little recreational scolding, as Mycroft not so long ago put it. Unfortunately, while she is a dab hand with a whip, a genuine, single tail, whip too: it’s not quite the sensation that he’s searching for.

“I must apologise. I really-“  
“Hush.”

She presses a finger to his lips to silence him. When she is content that he’ll be silent, she moves away, back to her position on the opposite couch. Mycroft dutifully keeps his peace for as long as it takes for him to finish his cup of tea.

“You really are an extraordinary individual.”  
“Ah! You said ‘individual’ not ‘woman’.”

On one hand he’s certain that he knows what she’s driving at and where this conversation is meant to go. On the other, he’s just has the best whipping of his life, albeit it lacking in pleasant blood loss, so he’s feeling just a little contrary.

“Well, it’s not as if you’re a gerbil.”  
“A… gerbil. Is that what you like?”  
“Goodness, no. Far too unsanitary.”

She laughs, throwing her head back, exposing her slim neck. It’s an unguarded laugh, deep throated and resonant. It is not the laugh of a professional courtesan or a woman playing social games. The booming resonance of it sends shivers down Mycroft’s spine.

“I could always put my hair up and have you call me…” she lowers her chin and straightens her shoulders. “…sir.”

This time it’s Mycroft who laughs aloud. It comes out as more of a giggle instead of a more dignified sound. Her suggestion, while perfectly reasonable, simply wouldn’t work for somebody of Mycroft’s inclination. She’d have to find a way to hide her entire body and give herself rough stubble.

“And a uniform?”  
“World War II of course.”  
“Your brother’s friend might be better able to help you there.”  
“If only he would.”

Which is more of an admission than he’s ever given to anybody else. Not least of all because Sherlock already knows. Quite how Sherlock is interpreting the information, on the other hand, is open to debate, because he seems to have mistaken desire, for a desire for ownership.

“Your brother is an exceptional individual, of course.”  
“Oh dear.”  
“He’ll get over it.”

Freshly showered, sans makeup and swathed in one of Mycroft’s spare dressing-gowns, every inch of her personality shines through. There is laugher in the creases at the corner of her eyes, danger in her slowly blossoming smile and, in the entire length of her body, the poise of a woman in supreme command of herself.

“Lipstick lesbians!”  
“Excuse me?”  
“ _That_ was the phrase I was looking for all along.”

She has the grace to ignore his sudden flush of embarrassment at his outburst.

“I- that is, I was looking for the phrase but couldn’t quite recall it. I didn’t mean to be so- I suppose its verbal diarrhoea. It happens sometimes when I’m nervous.”  
“Liar.”  
“That too. My apologies. Parameter testing, you understand.”

She refills both their teacups and helps herself to a biscuit.

“I should thank you for the perfume.”  
“Is it the right one?”  
“Eighteen-seventy-two. You’re going to tell me that the other one is more expensive.”

He smiles into his teacup as he takes a sip.

“Why aren’t you married, Mr Holmes?”  
“Why aren’t you, Ms Adler? I imagine a woman of your powers could turn any contractual arrangement to her favour.”  
“Could it be… because you believe in love? Are you waiting for the man of your dreams to sweep you off your feet?”  
“If he does, I’m going to expect an empire as an engagement present.”

This is the challenge that he’s been waiting for since yesterday, perhaps since the conclusion of his brother’s involvement in matters. She has been setting her affairs in order and ringing down the final curtain. The sudden revelation surprises even him and derails his entire train of thought.

“You were…”  
“I intended to go out in a blaze of glory.”  
“Good God.”

He sets his teacup and saucer down carefully, so that it doesn’t simply slip from his hands. She watches but refrains from commenting as he takes a few moments to steady himself.

“If by setting one’s heart right every morning and evening, one is able to live as though his body were already dead-“  
“Her whole life will be without blame, and she will succeed in her calling.”

Mycroft stares at her as she finishes the quotation for him. He remains still as she sets her own cup aside and makes her away towards him, across the room. She moves as if to kneel at his feet.

“No. Not like this, never like this.”  
“It doesn’t mean anything.”  
“Yes, it- Irene, _please_.”

He hasn’t ever addressed her by her first name alone before. It bears significant weight that now, of all times, he is pleading with the familiarity of her name.

“Mycroft? Look at me.”  
“How can I? I’m a fool.”

Her arms around him come as a surprise, and he finds himself wrapping his arms around her in kind.

“You’re not a fool. You are… a great man and a worthy adversary. But I’d prefer for us not to be in conflict.”  
“I miscalculated _everything_.”  
“You played a bad hand well.”

He sighs.

“Things aren’t different, things are just things?”  
“If you like.”  
“You may not like this but, please do take it as a compliment: you remind me of my mother.”

She chuckles softly.

“Good. It’s not every day that I’m paid the compliment of being compared to the most dangerous woman in the world.”

And there it is. A release of all the tension that he hadn’t realised he was holding in. There is so much that he has yet to understand but here, at least, is a beginning. He has spent so long holding so much in reserve, saving up for a rainy day and hording his resources like a miser. Here is proof undeniable that sometimes, perhaps at all times, the key is to live as if this moment alone is all that you have to live for.

“Carpe diem.”  
“Because each day might be your last.”

The gravity of that knowledge, coupled with the whimsy with which she says it triggers something within him, that he can’t quite put a name to. He finds himself laughing uncontrollably.

“Silly boy. What am I going to do with you?”

He doesn’t have an answer and doesn’t pretend as such when she lies back against the couch and pulls him down beside her.

“I suppose this would count as a reversal of roles.”

She runs her fingers through his hair and guides him to lay his head down on her chest.

“Men are typically the ones who rush about, living for the moment, and to hell with the consequences. Women are stereotypically expected to plan for the long-term and hold something back, in reserve.”  
“So society would believe.”  
“And there is a whole childhood in a nutshell.”

Her arms tighten around him, briefly, comfortingly.

“My mother sometimes risked all. Frequently.”  
“She was a gambler, just like I am.”  
“And the trick is knowing when to fold.”  
“No, the trick is to know when you can win.”

He closes his eyes, listening to her slow, steady, heartbeat.

“I’ve spent my whole life waiting for the next big moment, the next great revelation that will force me further down the path to enlightenment. And yet, always, I’ve been afraid.”  
“And now?”  
“Give me time, Athena Parthenos. It may take me a while to found Athens.”

It will take time, not to found a city, but to unravel the puzzle of himself. He has spent so long trying to control all odds that he has forgotten that he may just be capable of more than balance. He knows how to hold all things in stasis but now he must learn momentum again.

“Sleep if you like. I’m comfy.”  
“That you are.”

Her laugher follows him down into slumber.

 

He’s not exactly surprised, when he wakes, a half hour later, that it’s to the sound of his brother’s outraged shrieks.

**Author's Note:**

> Clive Christian’s No. 1 is considerably more expensive than 1872, and is reputedly the most expensive perfume in the world.
> 
> “If by setting one’s heart right every morning and evening, one is able to live as though his body were already dead he gains freedom in the Way. His whole life will be without blame, and he will succeed in his calling.”  
> \- Tsunetomo Y. (trans. Wilson W. S.), 2002, p. 24. _Hagakure: The Book of the Samurai_. Tokyo: Kodansha International Ltd.


End file.
